When travelling abroad, I’m usually stopped at border controls. My natural red skin looks like I blush! To me, it’s unfair to be stopped for reddish skin. Red-ism is as bad as racism, or sexism. Especially if I’m late for an interconnecting flight. Like today on my way to Los Angeles...
“Where are you from?” the Detroit passport control officer said, searching my overly red face.
Oh dear, here we go again. “England.”
“Where were you born?”
“London.”
“What do you do?”
“Eat chocolate.”
“We arrest wise-crackers. What job do you do?”
“Write books.”
“Yours?”
As if I’d write his. “Yes, I have my own website, www.allansweeney.com.”
Each answer was typed on a computer, word for word. No wonder there’s huge queues to enter USA. Big Brother’s data on file must be vast.
“How much money have you got?”
“What, in the bank?”
“One more wise-crack and you’re in trouble.” I glanced at the gun in his belt, and knew he was serious. “How much money have you got on you?”
“Less than £300.” He glared at me, as if to see if my face reddened more. It did, just because he was staring.
“Where are you staying?” I handed over a typed paper with Dianna’s name and address in Los Angeles.
“How long have you known her?”
“About a year.”
“Have you met before?”
“No.” Oh dear, is that a black mark against me?
“How did you meet?”
Gosh, such personal questions. “Online.” Is that against me too? My face reddened more, in case... “But we’re not dating.”
“I didn’t ask if you were dating. Just answer the questions.”
“I will.”
“I said, just answer the question. I didn't ask a question.”
“OK. That’ll save time. There’s only 15 minutes before my flight boards.”
His eyes narrowed. “For the final time, only answer questions. Speak when I ask. What job does she do?”
“Design.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Having fun.”
“I didn’t ask about your emotions. What are you doing in Los Angeles?”
“Meeting friends.”
“And Dianna’s a friend is she?”
I nodded.
“I said speak when I ask. Is Dianna a friend?”
“Yes.”
“Put your right hand fingers on this glass for your fingerprints.”
“OK, but I cut two fingers yesterday and have just taken two sticky plasters off and might get your screen sticky.”
He didn’t speak, just glared. I obeyed, and placed the fingers on the glass.
“The cuts might make my fingerprints different,” I suggested, “from last time I entered USA.” He paused, staring at my face. Ooops... Does he think I cut them deliberately? I blushed. He noticed. “Walk over there,” he said in a flat tone. “Wait in that small room. I’ll keep your passport.”
I never get nervous or scared, but USA passport officials give me the closest feeling to fear, as if you’re being questioned by police for a crime you haven’t committed, and might end up as an innocent in prison.
Nearby, an Eastern European man was led away. I couldn’t help wondering if I was in trouble, and at least be put on the next flight back to UK.
A different officer checked my previous comments against a database of answers I'd given to those questions on other arrivals to USA. “So you won’t mind if I phone your friend to check?”
My face reddened more. It was partly his questions, slightly the stress that I may miss the next flight, but mainly that I’d left freezing England wearing two thick sweaters and a jacket. Detroit’s temperature was a sweltering 30 degrees. He stared as I started to boil.
Thank God Dianna answered his questions OK. (Though later she said she was scared at his gruff, aggressive voice.)
“OK, you can go,” he said.
I ran for the flight, sweating more on the way. And just had time, before the gate closed, to buy four bars of Detroit chocolate. God, I needed that!
I hope no-one from USA passport control reads this blog post. They do a great job stopping illegal and dangerous immigrants, but I dread to think what questions they’d me ask next time.
“Where are you from?” the Detroit passport control officer said, searching my overly red face.
Oh dear, here we go again. “England.”
“Where were you born?”
“London.”
“What do you do?”
“Eat chocolate.”
“We arrest wise-crackers. What job do you do?”
“Write books.”
“Yours?”
As if I’d write his. “Yes, I have my own website, www.allansweeney.com.”
Each answer was typed on a computer, word for word. No wonder there’s huge queues to enter USA. Big Brother’s data on file must be vast.
“How much money have you got?”
“What, in the bank?”
“One more wise-crack and you’re in trouble.” I glanced at the gun in his belt, and knew he was serious. “How much money have you got on you?”
“Less than £300.” He glared at me, as if to see if my face reddened more. It did, just because he was staring.
“Where are you staying?” I handed over a typed paper with Dianna’s name and address in Los Angeles.
“How long have you known her?”
“About a year.”
“Have you met before?”
“No.” Oh dear, is that a black mark against me?
“How did you meet?”
Gosh, such personal questions. “Online.” Is that against me too? My face reddened more, in case... “But we’re not dating.”
“I didn’t ask if you were dating. Just answer the questions.”
“I will.”
“I said, just answer the question. I didn't ask a question.”
“OK. That’ll save time. There’s only 15 minutes before my flight boards.”
His eyes narrowed. “For the final time, only answer questions. Speak when I ask. What job does she do?”
“Design.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Having fun.”
“I didn’t ask about your emotions. What are you doing in Los Angeles?”
“Meeting friends.”
“And Dianna’s a friend is she?”
I nodded.
“I said speak when I ask. Is Dianna a friend?”
“Yes.”
“Put your right hand fingers on this glass for your fingerprints.”
“OK, but I cut two fingers yesterday and have just taken two sticky plasters off and might get your screen sticky.”
He didn’t speak, just glared. I obeyed, and placed the fingers on the glass.
“The cuts might make my fingerprints different,” I suggested, “from last time I entered USA.” He paused, staring at my face. Ooops... Does he think I cut them deliberately? I blushed. He noticed. “Walk over there,” he said in a flat tone. “Wait in that small room. I’ll keep your passport.”
I never get nervous or scared, but USA passport officials give me the closest feeling to fear, as if you’re being questioned by police for a crime you haven’t committed, and might end up as an innocent in prison.
Nearby, an Eastern European man was led away. I couldn’t help wondering if I was in trouble, and at least be put on the next flight back to UK.
A different officer checked my previous comments against a database of answers I'd given to those questions on other arrivals to USA. “So you won’t mind if I phone your friend to check?”
My face reddened more. It was partly his questions, slightly the stress that I may miss the next flight, but mainly that I’d left freezing England wearing two thick sweaters and a jacket. Detroit’s temperature was a sweltering 30 degrees. He stared as I started to boil.
Thank God Dianna answered his questions OK. (Though later she said she was scared at his gruff, aggressive voice.)
“OK, you can go,” he said.
I ran for the flight, sweating more on the way. And just had time, before the gate closed, to buy four bars of Detroit chocolate. God, I needed that!
I hope no-one from USA passport control reads this blog post. They do a great job stopping illegal and dangerous immigrants, but I dread to think what questions they’d me ask next time.
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